I Came to Casablanca For the Waters
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: Sebastian Moran has never been very comfortable with commitment.


_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Written for Catch_18._

* * *

Sebastian Moran has never been very comfortable with commitment.

Which is good, because Jim can buy commitment anywhere. He's got platoons of the stuff, entire battalions of it, men crawling at his feet for reasons none of them can voice. They are astonishingly easy to win over – Jim deals out money generously, favours when it is convenient for him, attention in sparse doses and with supreme disinterest. It's the attention that gets them. They want his approval so badly that they unman themselves for it, sacrificing his respect (which they never had anyway, not men so easily bought, so _weak_) for a quick nod, a fleeting glimpse of a faint smile.

Jim is not impressed by any of it, but they are useful, in some small, unimportant way, and so he keeps them on regardless. Not to mention that he rather likes the idea of having so many of them in the palm of his hand, where they are easily caressed or crushed, as necessary.

Sebastian Moran, he thinks, is different. He will not be easily crushed, Jim can tell, but a caress – a caress might shatter him.

He pushes aside the laptop; he won't get any new information by watching the grainy security camera recordings over and over again. Jim always assimilates every relevant detail the first time around. He knows Moran now, he's sure of it, knows him as well as any man could, except for one minor obstacle: they have not yet _met_.

The thin folder of documents is almost unnecessary, given what Jim already knows, but he flips it open and turns over the sheets inside anyway, one by one. Moran's performance at Eton (_exemplary academics, but socially isolated, and there had been several incidents_), his military records (_exemplary fulfilment of his duties, but_ – and here the document is cut off), and those missing pieces of information are, to Jim, particularly intriguing. There is no reason for them to be absent; after all, the Official Secrets Act is little more than a joke to an organization like Jim's. Therefore, the vague, unmentioned things Jim can read into the gaps in the records are left unwritten because Moran is careful.

Steady, calm, careful, unconcerned with bribery or threat. Soldier, sniper, hunter. Jim is starting to like this man more and more.

Perhaps it's time for them to meet.

* * *

Usually, when Jim arranges a meeting, it is conducted entirely on his own terms. He arrives before his intended target, surveys the location, decides where to place his men and where to stand so that he maintains a constant edge of superiority. He allows the people he meets with to wait for him, just long enough that they become uncomfortable; he always knows the appropriate length of time to wait, the fine line between generating anxiety and allowing his victims to snap too soon.

This time, Jim is not even aware of Sebastian Moran's presence until he is one hundred and twenty-three centimetres away.

He meets the other man's eyes and does not need to guess to know the distance between them, because an Accuracy International AWSM in .338 Lapua Magnum, the British army's best sniper rifle, is exactly one hundred and twenty-three centimetres long. And Moran is at the butt end of the rifle, and Jim is at the business end of it.

A smile of undisguised pleasure spreads across Jim's face.

"_Good_," is the first thing he ever says to Sebastian Moran.

The second is, "But you're not going to kill me," after which he stands calmly until Moran decides to speak.

"How do you know?" is all Moran asks. After all, this is their first meeting, and they are standing alone in a darkened warehouse with the muzzle of a sniper rifle pressing relentlessly into the small of Jim's back. To anyone else, this would be a fairly distinctive signal that dying is a very real possibility.

"Your rifle," Jim tells him, and expects to take advantage of Moran's reflexive twitch, the split-second glance down at the gun, to assume a less compromising position. But Moran doesn't twitch.

_Good_, he thinks again, but holds his peace.

"You don't believe a sniper rifle can be dangerous at close range?"

"Oh, certainly. You could kill me… if you wanted to." He doesn't add that Moran would die within seconds of pulling the trigger. He knows that Moran will already be aware of his protection.

"Tell me why I don't want to."

Moran speaks very softly, and Jim can hear traces of his high-born background in it, underneath the rough edges of army training, huntsmanship, smoky back rooms where cards are played and lives wagered.

"If you fire that at me point-blank, you'll make a _terrible_ mess. You might even damage the barrel, and it won't be cheap to replace." Again, he opts not to say what he is thinking; he doesn't bother pointing out that it isn't legal for Moran to own the one he has, much less purchase new parts, because if either of them were worried about 'legal,' they wouldn't be here today.

Moran says, "Some things are made to be used."

Jim takes a slow, measured step away from the gun, then turns to face Moran.

"I can help you with that."

* * *

Moran is blond, which Jim already knew, and his eyes are a startling blue, which Jim didn't. It doesn't photograph well, that colour. Some might say it's just the light, or the angle of the snapshot that was taken for his MOD90. Jim, who sees more than most, recognizes the gleam in Moran's eyes (he's seen it in the mirror, after all) and suspects it is rather more than light and angle.

All of this is relevant because when Jim walks into the room with Moran, he can _see_ the others underestimating him. Moran sees it too, and smiles.

This is already boring, and Jim lets contempt seep into his voice as he says listlessly, "Sebastian's going to be in charge of operations now."

The looks on their face are stupid in shock, slack-jawed over Jim's putting a stranger in a position of authority over them. The man who has been in charge so far, Worth, looks more than shocked – he's positively _annoyed_, which is awfully fun for Jim.

"How do we know he's any good?" Worth wants to know.

Now it's Jim who is annoyed, and the words are on the tip of his tongue – "_Are you questioning me?_" – when he sees that Moran has stepped forward and is meeting Worth's gaze head-on.

The two men look at one another for a moment, Moran's face impassive, Worth's twisted in anger, and then suddenly their positions change and Moran is standing behind the shorter man, one arm casually wrapped around him, pressing a kukri to his throat so that the blade wraps around and kisses the skin. Tiny points of blood shine on the edge of the blade, and the face of the man imprisoned behind it is distorted in fear, now, instead of anger.

"Do you need any more proof?" Moran asks quietly.

Worth tries to shake his head, but the motion allows the blade to bite deeper into the softness of his throat, and he swallows (another ruby-beaded droplet appears) and whispers, "No…"

Moran releases him in one quick gesture, wipes the blade of the knife against his trouser leg, and presents it to Worth with a small bow. It's only when Worth snatches back the weapon and stuffs it into a sheath at the back of his belt that Jim realizes it was his kukri all along.

His best man, subdued in seconds with his own knife.

Jim finds himself smiling involuntarily.

"Sebastian," he says, proffering the day's hit list, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."


End file.
